


Hand- Made

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, a lil bit, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and meaner, lots of stupid mangst, something to generate myself out of writers block
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looms in the anger of thunderstorms, sometimes. Sometimes the crashing of thunder feels like fists, lightning like a strike to the face, fast and bright enough as to only catch a glimpse of furiously blue eyes. You lift your hands to feel for bruises, but nothing is there except for dry skin and stubble.<br/> Joking to Sam about the abnormality of feeling more comfortable with bruises than without only earns a distrustful eye and a question about how much sleep you're getting these days. You glower and manage to change the subject (the answer would have been barely).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand- Made

The last time you see him, it was his figure striding down the road towards a denser patch of forest, under a reddening sky.. His clothes were torn, and when you call to him, he glances over his shoulder and keeps going. Whatever, you thought. You would pick him up after you did some damage control in town and get back on your feet- this job had been a sizable one, it had knocked the wind out of all of you. It wasn't your business where the damn guy wanted to cool his heels.

You drive back an hour later and the forest is empty. Tramping through the underbrush, following paths, yelling his name, it proved worthless, and he left no trails.

You haven't seen him in 18 months, 12 days.

Not that you're counting.

 

 

You feel like you catch sight of him though, sometimes. He appears when you least expect- fishing, once. It was grey and windy, your shirt flapped against your back. The water swelled and ebbed and when the fish you hauled out of the lake, after quite a struggle, stared back at you with a condescending, solemn eye, there he was. You felt sick and tossed it back.

He re-appears in the pursed- lipped, vague confusion you keep seeing in old men at diners. Under the cheap, dim light, they are stiff- backed and with a disdainful air, with jacket sleeves rolled up and flopping over their hands. They bend closely over their plates and stare at their food intensely, giving their food more attention than is needed, dragging silverware with deliberation. They make you want to leave early from your 12:30 am dinner. Out the door you go, not meeting their eyes, turning up the collar of your coat. An empty beer bottle and a half- eaten burger is left on the table, and you forget to leave a tip.

He looms in the anger of thunderstorms, sometimes. Sometimes the crashing of thunder feels like fists, lightning like a strike to the face, fast and bright enough as to only catch a glimpse of furiously blue eyes. You lift your hands to feel for bruises, but nothing is there except for dry skin and stubble.

Joking to Sam about the abnormality of feeling more comfortable with bruises than without only earns a distrustful eye and a question about how much sleep you're getting these days. You glower and manage to change the subject (the answer would have been barely).

You end a job by smashing someone's skull with your hands- another day at the office. Later he is reflected back at you by the sight of your bloodied knuckles, and it suddenly occurs to you that he might be dying.

For all you know, he was a bundle of rumpled- up trench coat on the side of a ditch somewhere, bleeding human blood all over the damned place, and here you were sitting on a motel bed picking god- knows- what out of your nails. You run your hands through your hair and feel guilt roll over you in waves: you didn't even know his shitting blood type. Surely Cas didn't check for Jimmy's blood type before he fucked off to smite people and be a dick in someone else's body. Cas might be dying and even if he managed to conjure up the required amount of social skills to get help, surely it'd be too late by then. God knows he could hardly get out a 'hey, how ya doin' ' without causing some sort of catastrophe, and 'help, I'm dying of blood loss and can't get myself to medical care' was on a whole other level.

It took five minutes of passionately marching the length of the motel room and rubbing your face before Sam grabs you by the shoulder, plunks you down, and tiredly asks what the newest fit of anxiety has been brought on by.

"Blood types, man."

This had obviously not been the expected answer, as it was met with upturned eyebrows, and a trademark, uncomfortable cough. "Uh. Okay, how come?"

You knit your hands together and glare at them. A better answer would most likely not be found there, as per usual, but you'll be damned before you didn't try to find a less awkward way to continue inked onto your fingers.

"What. If… someone, hypothetically, is hurt. Like, I dunno, hit by a car, or shot, something that'll put you pretty out, right?"

If Sam's eyebrows could go any higher they'd be lost in his hair forever. "Sure."

"Well, what if, you got found by somebody, and they take you to help, and you don't know your blood type?" You shift where you sit, glowering downwards. "What if you're too stupid to know, and you're almost dead, and you're too much of a downright idiot to not know your own damn blood type and they don't know what to transfuse you with?"

Sam's brows made a slow, aggravatingly knowing descent back to their proper place, and he purses his lips with a retired air. He stands, and claps you on the shoulder.

"They take a sample. They run a test and find out in minutes. Transfusion after, crisis averted in no time." A gentle shake from him softly jars you to one side, and you're forced to look up at him, his eyes sad. "He'll come back when he's ready."

You don't say a word as Sam disappears into the bathroom.

 

 

19 months, 2 days. Being thought to be generally dead, and/ or magnets to everything shittily apocalyptic and doom bring-y had a way of disheartening friendly guests to their house, so when a knock sounded on Bobby's door, you open it behind a sawed- off shotgun and a knife stuck down the back of your jeans for good measure.

"What do you want?"

At the receiving end was a bony, exhausted face, with eyes that sagged and a mouth turned down, followed by slumped shoulders that had a once- tan, now clay/ dirt brown overcoat slipping off and swallowing him in it for all its enormity and its wearer's thinness. 

The shirt he was wearing was not the one he departed in. 

He smelled like death.

You blink slowly, realizing you would have recognized him sooner if his face hadn't been smeared over with blood and his lip split wide under a goose- egg bruise rising over a decimated cheekbone. 

Your mouth slips open just as he collapses forwards, and you could have shot him for shock.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Your sting red full stops my skin, dotted, scratch scratch, now I’m bleeding._  
>  Legions upon legions of craftsmen handmade my feelings,  
> For you


End file.
